


Trouble Comes in Threes

by Questions3



Series: Fuzzy Footed Foolishness [13]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Matchmaking, F/M, Female Bilbo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:47:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questions3/pseuds/Questions3
Summary: Gandalf should know better and this is why Durin's aren't allowed near breakables.





	

            Bilbo had understood when Gandalf had said he couldn’t guarantee she’d come back to Bagend. It was perfectly reasonable (in a completely batshit kind of way); after all, one couldn’t be sure of much out here in the Wilds. Dwalin had made it plain that it wasn’t a place for soft creatures that couldn’t defend themselves. Regardless, she’d followed the fools off into the thick of it for this adventure and, though at first she’d regretted it, she’d found something in the Company to make all the risk worth it. She’d found family and friends, and one very special dwarf who’d come to mean quite a bit more to her even if she was nothing more than a tiny nuisance in comparison.

            That didn’t mean, though she had accepted Gandalf couldn’t guarantee her safety, he should be allowed to damn near send her from this land to the waiting Mother’s arms himself. If a goblin or an orc were to skewer her, should she fall off a cliff or out of a tree and splatter across the harsh and unforgiving ground, should Bombur roll over in his sleep and _crush_ her she would accept her fate with little to no remorse. But to find mother’s dear old friend was the lack wit behind this latest scheme to apparently place her in life threatening peril was too much for the little lass to calmly accept.

            It was also a little much for Thorin, it seemed, as he was currently giving the Grey Pilgrim and his own nephews the most violent dressing down she’d seen in all her days. He was drenched, with his majestic hair streaming, mud caking parts of it at odd angles as he shook the air with his fierce commentary on simpletons and assassins.

            The first time something had gone amiss and sent little Bilbo into peril’s way had been dismissed as accident. It was completely possible Myrtle had been a bit spooked by a shadow that sent the mounting hobbit tumbling from the height. No one would question it.

            The second time she’d nearly fallen into a ditch.

            The third time she found herself somehow stranded in a rather high branch, sure she’d been sleeping below the damned things the night before.

            The fourth time she’d been chased through the underbrush by a wild boar (and no, she wasn’t talking about Glóin).

            The fifth time she’d apparently slept too close to the fire and caught ablaze.

            And so on and so forth. Though it all seemed to point to a rather accident-prone hobbit lass and led to a very pissed off leader.

            Each time something seemed to go amiss with the tiny burglar she’d been thrust into Thorin’s personal space.

            When Myrtle spooked, he’d landed on his back with a hobbit plastered to his front.

            When she’d nearly tumbled into the ditch she slapped into his solid form and bounced off to the relative safety of the road, leaving the Throneless King to tumble through a bramble bush, riddled with spikes and nettles.

            He was the only dwarf with the height, strength and agility to climb up that ridiculous tree and get the stranded creature out of it (Nori having been render useless by immense amounts of unwarranted mirth). This, of course, led to some curious rambling about the Company on how exactly she’d gotten up there in the first place if she couldn’t possibly have reached the limbs to pull up.

            The boar had damn near ended the quest right there when it speared him in the leg. Two inches to the left and he’d be a dead dwarf (three and there’d be _no_ questions of Fíli inheriting the thrown). Instead they’d been rather well fed for a day or two and he’d walked funny for a sennight.

            Helping stomp out the fire, he caught ablaze himself and developed a rather majestic tuck and roll method to handle such calamity in the future, anything to avoid Dwalin’s entirely too interested aid in dashing the flames.

            And, of course, with each accident he became even less inclined to believe in their chosen burglar’s capabilities and right to be among them.

            “I am _not_ the mount!”

            “Can you not even _walk_ , Halfling!? OW! MAHAL TAKE IT, ÓIN!”

            “If you could do this awake you’d actually be _useful_!

            “RUN! JUST RUN! MAHAL TAKE YOU YOU BASTARD! RUN! AHHHHH!!!”

            **sniff sniff** “Is Bombur _roasting_ something?”

            But even Thorin and his clear prejudice couldn’t deny something malicious was in the making. No _one_ creature could actually be this much of a calamity. Even the sacking of Erebor was paling in comparison to this tiny woman’s travels. After the incident with the woodpeckers he’d begun to pay extra attention to the petite creature and her interactions. Curious to see if perhaps she was inciting the wrath of some forest spirit or god with her actions, but nothing seemed forthcoming.

            If anything Bilbo was endeavoring to be anything but cumbersome. She worked from the moment she rose to the minute she collapsed in exhaustion at the end of the day’s trek. Running this way and that, fetching water for washing, wood for burning, wild herbs and vegetables for cooking. There was nothing anyone would ask of her that she wouldn’t try to do. Bombur would send her off for cooking supplies, Óin would employ her herb lore for his dwindling stores, Dori enlisted her during his mending sessions. And then there were the things she’d just do as small asides. When collecting wood she’d find small unusable pieces for Bofur to whittle during the daily ride, flowers for Bifur to chew on while dinner was cooking, teach Ori some odd little tricks with water, animal fat, and tree sap that made curious new inks for the lad’s writings. She sat for hours near Glóin listening to the entirely too proud father as no one else was inclined to rehash the epic that was Gimli. Balin was finding a contemporary of his own as he exchanged cultural ideologies with the tiny lass. Even those dwarrow in his employ that were far less social seemed to find the Halfling entertaining in some capacity. Both Dwalin and Nori were competing for Bilbo’s attentions, turning her into a kind of apprentice of sorts. Dwalin would take the lass aside every other night to teach her the basics of sword technique, Nori taking the other nights to enhance her burgling specialties.

            It only took a few days of this silent, near constant, observation for Thorin to realize two key details. The first being that in those days he was watching the hobbit, nothing untoward had befallen her or himself, thank Mahal’s great mercy. The other was the suspicious lack of interactions she seemed to have with his very own nephews and the Company’s wizard.

            And suspicious it was seeing as the only member of the troupe who knew the hobbit before this debacle of a quest was the wizard, and his nephews were nothing if not _obnoxious_ with their curiosity. In truth those were the three who should be harassing the hobbit from noon till night, but they each went _days_ without interacting with the tiny creature. As a matter of fact, they seemed to spend all the time he would normally have allocated them with her, with each other. The thought of what that barmy wizard was doing with his sister sons were causing a dark scowl on the dwarf’s face as he spent a day or two glaring at their collaboration. A collaboration that seemed to end when the Grey One realized he was being observed. Tharkûn could pull off the benign old man act, but his sister sons hadn’t been innocent a day in their entire lives.

            Thorin was preoccupied trying to puzzle the pieces of this conundrum when he called an early stop for the day near a stream. The current wasn’t too terribly fast, and would allow them a chance to clean the worst of the road’s grime off before continuing in the morning. A shame he hadn’t known beforehand that hobbits couldn’t swim. Even worse, neither could Thorin.

            If you asked Fíli and Kíli, the fault should land solely on Thorin. In their experience with their Uncle, he was only ever that ornery with someone that had caught his attention. And to catch his attention, and not die, was to catch his affections. And Kíli was damn tired of being the youngest. Bilbo seemed just the thing to solve their problems. Their mother had been saying for _decades_ Thorin’s bad attitude only needed a female’s soft touch to iron it out (never mind there was _nothing_ soft about the Lady Dís and _her_ touch was like that of an enraged mother puma). And Bilbo was just that. Soft. She exuded love and warmth. The way she tended the needs of the company and how eager to please she was. She was everything that a sexually repressed dwarrow could need in a tiny plump package. And, if the lads were to be honest, they could do far worse for a new Auntie. So they’d started early in their plotting.

            The first one hadn’t gone so well. The tiny pebbles had certainly tossed the lass from the horse and into Thorin’s lap but they’d been reading entirely too many of their mother’s tawdry scrolls if they thought the King was going to then snatch the plump parcel up and ravish her in the woods. Well, not the first time at least.

            The second attempt was an unmitigated disaster, seeing as their Uncle was now bristling in earnest and genuinely. Hardly a good showing of courtly interest, glowering and bellowing at his lady love, to be sure.

            Happily, though they were unsure in the direction they should go from there, the wizard had caught onto their games. Apparently Gandalf was rather charmed by the idea, finding the inclusion of little Miss Bilbo Baggins into the Royal line of Durin as a strong push in the correct direction once they’d reclaimed the mountain. Mayhap this romance could even heal the line of that pesky gold sickness they were given to. If Thorin found something he valued more highly then the wealth of his people the old wizard would breath a site easier.

            So into a tree the hobbit went. Levitation wasn’t his specialty but he could easily give Kíli specific instructions and herbs that would knock the tiny creature out so he could perch her in the higher boughs himself. When this failed he’d damn near knocked Thorin’s obstinate head off his shoulders.

            The boar had been pure happenstance. Turns out, Bilbo actually was rather unlucky when it came down to it.

            The fire was pure miscalculation. Gandalf had been hoping to spark some protective instinct in the King by sending a small spark into the fire that would startle the hobbit. His error was in letting Fíli apply the black powder.

            Woodpeckers were a disaster and why Kíli wasn’t allowed to have the final say during their conniving any longer.

            But the river scheme was brilliant. There was very little that could go wrong. And Gandalf himself would ensure the hobbit was merely lightly tripped into the stream so Thorin could pull her out to shore.

            Instantly, having seen the fools at it directly, Thorin stormed after the hobbit in an attempt to save themselves from the devastating trio. He’d snatched the lass up and had been intending to drag her to the relative safety of the tiny pool Dori had erected from a few relocated boulders when his nephews got a little over eager. With a curse and a thump the pair were suddenly twisting and turning down the river, screaming when they managed to fight their way to the surface. The current had picked up speed from the redecorating Dori had done and Thorin couldn’t get a steady enough foothold to drag the pair out of harms way. He managed to wrap the tiny lass into his larger frame and avoid some of the harsher beatings from the rocks but there was nothing he could do for the lack of air the pair was receiving. It seemed all was lost as Thorin’s sight began to burst into black spots, but just then he felt himself being tugged back as he held tight to the Burglar’s body. They began making slow progress towards the shore as Bilbo had managed to snag onto some long, overhanging vines as they’d been cascading by. Once he’d come into arms reach Thorin had taken over the labor, dragging the pair gasping and bruised to the grassy shore just as their friends came calling after them. They all trekked back to the campsite, Dwalin supporting Thorin’s weight as Dori half carried the near unconscious Hobbit.

            And that’s how they found themselves where they were at the moment. With Thorin roaring at the fools who’d been sabotaging the little burglar since damn near the beginning and Bilbo sniffling into her wet pocket handkerchief getting looked over by Óin.

            “WHAT IN MAHAL’S FORGES WERE YOU THINKING!? **_QUIET_**! YOU WHEREN’T THINKING AT ALL! WE’VE BEEN BRUISED, MAIMED, AND DAMN NEAR DROWNED ALL FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR BUFFOONERY! I’VE HALF A MIND TO SEND YOU BOTH BACK TO YOUR MOTHER AND LET HER FLAY THE SKIN OFF ALL THREE OF YOUR HIDES! WERE THE POSSIBLE ORC RAIDS, GOBBLIN TRAPS, ELF BRIGADES, AND **DRAGON** NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU?! YOU HAD TO ENGINEER **_MORE_** DANGER?!”

            It was as majestic a sight as ever you’d seen; three idiots being lectured like tiny faunts. Bilbo was just happy she wasn’t the one being yelled at this time as she quaked on her rock, half shocked, half frozen, completely miserable.

            At the sound of her swiftly snuffled sneeze (damn adorable, like a tiny fluffy dog or day old kitten. A _soggy_ day old kitten, but the sentiment remains), Bifur growled as he marched over to the shivering hobbit and plucked her out of the mess she found herself in. Without so much as a blink the addled toymaker turned with said hobbit and deposited her with a small squeak into his cousin’s lap. Bofur’s arms (very much bare as he’d hardly managed to pull up his pants before chasing after the swiftly drowning pair) came up of their own accord to stabilize the now blushing lass. She tried to bounce up from the improper closeness but a second sharp sneeze sent her right back into the strong miner’s lap. And once those arms came around her she was absolutely loath to leave the bone melting warmth he gave off after the icy ride she’d taken in the current. With a slight moan of relief she cuddled backwards into the slowly dampening furnace behind her, tucking under his stubbled chin and burrowing chilled fingers through the hair covering taught skin where it stretched rather appealingly over rippling musculature.

            Bofur was wide-eyed and hot under the non-existent collar as the tiny creature curled into him with such trust and contentment. He could do nothing but indulge, especially after possibly the cutest sneeze he’d ever been privy to, not to mention the shivers running through the wee thing. She’d catch her death if he didn’t hold her tighter and wrap his jacket about the lass. He rubbed the goosed arms and burrowed into her damp curls, letting his warm breath heat her more, and subtly inhaling the green scents that seemed a permanent undertone to the burglar.

            Gandalf and the lads each watched the absolutely revolting display of cuteness and just shook their heads a moment before bowing them once more to the much deserved and barely begun ranting dwarf King.

            Bifur snorted as he went back to munching on a bouquet of daisies the nice little hobbit had found for him earlier that evening. He may be addled but he wasn’t a damned fool. Bilbo wouldn’t survive as a Durin, some royal miss of a nation of dwarrow who’d fight and spit on her for everything she’d do. She’d make a perfect little Ur, though, and Bombur’s wife could use a little sister to help with the dozen children the pair’d had thus far, not to mention the nonsense her menfolk tended to get into anyhow. And there was something to be said about the lass’s cooking, she was damn brilliant at it, as well as picking out the most delectable floral arrangements.


End file.
